


i didn’t know i was broken (‘til i wanted to change)

by decideophobia



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-22 22:33:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18536818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decideophobia/pseuds/decideophobia
Summary: Eliot shifts slightly, opening his eyes. “I almost lost you,” he says, so softly Quentin almost misses it. “Twice.”





	i didn’t know i was broken (‘til i wanted to change)

**Author's Note:**

> From tumblr, based on the prompts:
> 
> “Please, don’t leave.”  
> “I almost lost you.”  
> “Don’t you ever do that again!”  
> “You lied to me.”  
> “I think I’m in love with you and I’m terrified.”

The room is dark when Quentin wakes up; and he’s so warm. He feels like coming out of a fever, limbs heavy with exhaustion, and a tension behind his eyes that’s nauseating. His tongue is so dry it sticks to the roof of his mouth, he can’t swallow. When he tries moving, something is weighing him down; not heavy enough to constrict him entirely, but enough to make the movements of his tired body sluggish, enough for it to be a fight to move.

There’s something tickling the side of his face, and he has half a mind to panic, except he’s still subdued, his mind grappling with what’s happening, with the fact that he’s awake at all. He blinks against the odd shapes and colours dancing in his vision, giving himself time to adjust to the darkness in which he found himself in.

It’s when it finally clears and his mind starts sharpening, albeit slowly, as if it’s trying to remember how to work, that he realizes someone is lying next to him: close, crowding in his space, surrounding him entirely, body molded against his like a glove, warm and protective. It’s the reason he’s running hot, it’s why it’s difficult to move, and the arm around his waist is a secure blanket, anchoring him–to a place he thought he’d given up.

Quentin’s eyes adjusted enough for him to make out the room he’s in; a hospital of sorts, although he can’t tell if it’s Brakebills or not. Lying next to him, curled tightly around his body as if to shield him from the world, is Eliot.

Eliot, who last Quentin checked had been scurried into a hospital as well, suffering tremendous blood loss, fighting to survive the wound Margo had inflicted in order to expel the Monster from his body. Quentin had been too high-strung, too keyed up, too anxious to stick around; focusing instead of getting rid of the Monster and his sister once and for all so they wouldn’t come back to possess any of his loved ones again.

The tremendous rush of relief and affection crashing over him leaves him choking up. Eliot is back. Eliot is alive, and he’s here.

It takes him a moment to realize that Eliot’s awake. Years and years after sleeping next to him coming back in a rush, flooding his memory with sensations and emotions that would’ve bowled him over hadn’t he been standing.

“Eliot,” he says, croaks, whispers, really.

Eliot shifts slightly, opening his eyes. “I almost lost you,” he says, so softly Quentin almost misses it. “Twice.”

There’s a beat of silence in which Quentin doesn’t know how to respond, his mind stuck on, _twice_.

“Don’t ever do it again,” Eliot adds, his voice serious and breaking at the same time.

Quentin almost asks, _What?_ What is he not supposed to do again when the moments in the mirror realm, in front of the Seam, come crashing back into his head, leaving him with a violently sick feeling in his gut.

It was a second, there, in this dead world, in front of that mirror; a split second, long enough for him to think he was too exhausted, too lost, too damaged, too useless. He’d cast the spell, and then the second was over, and the panic, the helplessness, the anger he felt at himself nearly paralyzed him. The last thing he remembers is reaching for Alice’s hand.

Eliot moves, his motions slow and aborted, as he tries to straighten himself and get off the bed. Quentin loosely grabs his wrist, a grasp like a question, a plea.

“Please, don’t leave,” he says, watching as Eliot’s eyes roam over his face; so much hope, sadness, and guilt in them.

Eliot lies back down, carefully, and Quentin slides his fingers into his palm. Eliot’s fingers tangle with his, softly, sweetly, a caress so tender it sends Quentin reeling again, but differently now; a rush of hope, of longing.

When they’ve both settled, Eliot looks at him, holds his gaze, and the vulnerability knocks all the air out of Quentin’s lungs.

Eliot takes a deep breath, as if to steel himself. “I promised myself I’d be braver if I ever got out,” he starts, his voice barely above a whisper, the words carrying something in them that coils low in Quentin’s gut. “I’m in love with you,” Eliot continues, holding his gaze, open, honest, brave. “And I’m terrified.”

There another split second, not unlike in the mirror world, when Quentin assumes the worst, but as in the mirror world, it passes just as quickly; the look on Eliot’s face telling him what he means.

“You lied to me,” Quentin says, furrowing his brows, the words just now falling out of his mouth and into his consciousness; and he wonders how long he’s known, deep down.

“Q–”

“We both do stupid shit when we’re terrified, El,” Quentin says, trying, wanting, desperately, to make him understand that he _knows_. “We’re pretty great at self-sabotaging ourselves.”

Eliot gives him a sad smile, but there’s hope in his eyes; love, so deep and unbridled that Quentin’s heartbeat stumbles, trips, unable to handle all of what Eliot pours into him.

“I don’t wanna do that anymore.” It’s a confession, a promise, a plea.

“Then let’s not,” Quentin says, curling in closer. “I see you. You see me. Let’s work not to do it anymore.”

Eliot tucks Quentin’s head under his chin after pressing a kiss to his forehead, their tangled hands resting right atop his stumbling heart.

“Yes,” Eliot says. “Let’s.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/proofsofconcept), raging about shit.


End file.
